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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206821">The Tale of Sacrier's First Disciple</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Resurrectionist/pseuds/The_Resurrectionist'>The_Resurrectionist</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dofus (Video Game), Wakfu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Free Real Estate, Canon Rewrite, Gen, Origin Story, The World of Twelve</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:41:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,188</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206821</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Resurrectionist/pseuds/The_Resurrectionist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of the tale of Sacrier's ascension, referenced from the tome <b>Gods and Demons</b> by Acidrik Gutsplitter.</p><p>In a world characterized by needless suffering, the yet-to-be-ascended goddess walks the wintry wastes. She discovers a soul kept in the most unlikely of places, and in whispers of encouragement, provides the children of the World of Ten with the knowledge and power to transform their afflictions into immeasurable strength. Her words spread in haste, a soothing balm for an earth marred by strife, finally culminating in a declaration of ascendancy: a fitting finale for The Eleventh Goddess.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Tale of Sacrier's First Disciple</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I used so much unintentional alliteration in the summary, forgive me. I never much liked Sacrier's canon ascension story. I wanted to write her something that spoke to what she stands for: sometimes there is no real meaning to suffering, but she will give you the means to turn it into strength. </p><p>I often write in tandem with the inspiration of music. The theme that aided me here is "Days to Come ft. Fiora" by Seven Lions.</p><p>This piece is dedicated to the Wrath, who mastered difficulty without the help of any goddess. I admire you very, very much.</p><p>Thank you for coming, and I hope you enjoy your stay.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In those days, the World of Ten was a world of suffering.</p><p>On the waning cusp of time’s tenth year, Djaul, servant of the Shushu lord Rushu, set himself upon Solar, the protector of Javian, and triumphantly cast his broken body from the heights of the mountain peaks of Amakna. Djaul’s victory ushered in the encore of a fierce and terrible winter. Storms of snow and ice gripped the planet, stealing vitality from the earth and its inhabitants. Sicknesses spread easily through towns and villages. Shortages of food stores plagued every household while entire stretches of road became utterly impassable beneath the impotent sun, preventing merchant caravans from transporting supplies. Little hope was to be found anywhere as the coming of each dawn no longer carried with it the promise of a new day of life.</p><p>Sacrier, who was yet to ascend, roamed this wintry and desolate expanse wearing the appearance of an old beggar woman. Her heart was inundated with grief at the misery of the people, but she wondered at the stubborn tenacity of the survivors, who day after day scraped a meager existence from the barren ground. Offering aid where she could, she continued her endless search for one whom she could call disciple – a soul who shared the secret longings of her spirit.</p><p>One day in her lonesome wanderings, she came across a pit of rambling thorn bushes dug into the earth near the bend of an icy river. Shading her eyes against the glint of sunlight reflecting off the snow, Sacrier beheld a solitary figure seated amongst the thorned brambles in the belly of the pit. It was a woman of moderate years, her simple yet adequate clothing covered in a multitude of patchwork mendings. Oddly, her arms, feet, and head were bare, but a rusted metal collar encircled her neck. As Sacrier drew closer to the pit’s edge, the woman lifted her face, and Sacrier beheld the flame of a quiet strength dwelling behind the captive’s wild eyes.</p><p>“Who is it that gazes up at me from a place of such lonesome despair?” Sacrier called down to her.</p><p>“A slave,” came the ready reply, and in the speaker’s voice was no contempt.</p><p>“How have you come to be in this pit?”</p><p>“I took the life of my task master. So, I have marked myself for death.”</p><p>“Curious,” mused Sacrier, “for this one cannot see his shadow over you. Your cheeks are flushed with youth and there is no grief in your manner. You are well and able. Why do you not up and away in pursuit of freedom for yourself?”</p><p>“Your sight is keen and your speech is kind, <i>madam</i>,” said the slave, bowing her head respectfully. “Know that I am willing to satiate the requirement of a pound of flesh for a life stolen. If I did not, another would be forced to bear this debt in my stead. I will not purchase my liberty with the blood of my kin.”</p><p>Sacrier could not withhold the smile of admiration that graced her lips. She brushed a small amount of powdered snow into the pit, watching the frozen flakes impale themselves on the thorny scrub.</p><p>“It is well said. And what of this pit?” Sacrier pressed. “Do the stones not bruise your limbs?”</p><p>“It is as you say.”</p><p>“Does the frozen wind not deafen you?”</p><p>“Truly.”</p><p>“And do the dry thorns not tear your flesh?”</p><p>“Aye, they do indeed, <i>madam</i>, and all suit me fine.”</p><p>Sacrier was surprised by the slave’s willingness to accept her fate, for she saw how the slave harbored a small amount of sadness in the lines of worry upon her upturned face. “Your conversation intrigues me,” she said encouragingly. “Tell me this: why now do you not cry for help to the gods, who may hear and aid you?”</p><p>“Many besides me have offered their voices to the gods,” the slave observed. “Have you not heard them weeping and calling in the streets of every village? And no answer has come. So, as the gods have fallen silent, I must continue in my own way, and I regret it not.”</p><p>“Yet you hesitate?”</p><p>The captive inclined her head again. “Pray, forgive me, for it seems I am unable to hide myself from you. There were many of my kin who looked to me for courage. The dead can offer no comfort, much less protect the gentler of spirit. But a corpse I shall be, in three days’ time.”</p><p>Sacrier saw that there was no deceit in her and was overcome with delight. Here was the soul she had long been searching for. “The strength of your heart grants you beauty beyond comprehension!” she cried. “Hearken to me. Tonight, when the moon is highest, a crobeak with pale feathers will alight at the edge of this pit. Before it arrives, prick your arms with the thorns around you and gather the blood you shed into your hands. When the crobeak appears, offer up this chalice of flesh. If you are spoken to, answer the creature truthfully as you have done so with me. If you do this, what you desire will be rewarded to you.”</p><p>And so Sacrier withdrew, leaving the astonished slave to contemplate her instructions.</p><p>When the tumultuous cloud cover of winter night blanketed the skies, the slave did as she had been bidden. Though dry, the thorns about her had not become brittle, and she was readily able to score her arms with them. She carefully guided her blood to pool in her hands and settled herself down to wait. The white crobeak was not long in coming. The very moment the captive thought her pooling blood would overflow out of her hands was when the beast arrived. With the fluttering of feathered wings it landed on the edge of the pit across from where the slave was seated, regarding her with intelligent eyes. </p><p>Without a sound, the slave held out her cupped hands. The crobeak launched itself off the edge and began to bathe in her blood. When it had finished, it flew back up to the edge of the pit and said:—</p><p>“You have honored me with an offering of immeasurable price. Consider now the earth beneath your feet. None contest its strength, and from it all lives gain sustenance. A traveller may find nothing more faithful; a farmer, nothing more challenging. To be of the earth is to become a power immovable, steadfast and undying, readily able to bear the wicked fury of the tempests of any storm. Knowing this, for what would you wish?”</p><p>The slave considered the crobeak’s words before answering, but her voice rang strong and loud into the chilly night air when she finally responded. </p><p>“I would that I might be able to carry the suffering of any in my company on my shoulders.” </p><p>“I hear and hail you,” the crobeak replied. “Your speech brings me great pleasure. Tomorrow night, I shall return anew. Prepare the chalice for me.”</p><p>The second night came as readily as the first. Again, the slave wordlessly held out her blood-filled hands. Again, the crobeak bathed messily, and when it was satisfied, it spoke.</p><p>“Twice you have honored me with an offering. Consider now the wind that wanders where it will. Who can say, ‘I know the comings and goings of every breeze – I am able to beckon the wind to my side'? Indeed, there are none who can claim to be its master. To be of the wind is to be untouchable, to conduct oneself and one’s ensemble like leaves borne aloft in a gale. Knowing this, for what would you wish?”</p><p>“I would that I might be able to keep any in my company out of the path of harm.”</p><p>“Your words are noble: selfless and true. I will return on the morrow. Allow me to bathe once more, and all will be given to you.”</p><p>On the final night, though she was greatly fatigued with hunger and chilled by the winter cold, the slave bled a third time. She held her hands as steady as she could manage while the crobeak indulged in its bath. The creature had ceased to appear white; its dripping feathers shone in shades of darkest crimson under the light of the moon. It bathed with a ritualistic slowness most unexpected for a crobeak, relishing in each individual gesture. By the time it had finished its final bath, the crobeak could hardly fly, choosing instead to remain in the chalice formed by the slave’s hands. </p><p>“In the face of your mortality, you have honored me with an offering these three nights,” the crobeak began, looking up into the captive’s face. “Consider now the blood you have presented me beneath the vigilant moon. See how it clothes your arms and hands in its embrace. Feel how it is just as fluid and supple as it was the moment it first issued from your body. Like the flames of a wildfire, so too will your blood mangle and devour your enemies. To be of blood is to comprehend the most profound suffering, and to teach such suffering to those who have earned it as part of the inheritance for their deeds. Knowing this, for what would you wish?”</p><p>The slave took a deep, steady breath and exhaled, “I would that I might be able to deliver death to those who wield power with cruelty.”</p><p>In the blink of an eye, the captive found herself standing on the snowy terrain above the pit. The crimson crobeak had disappeared from her hands, and before her now stood a woman of great and terrible beauty. A woven crown of black bleeding-heart flowers adorned her brow, her shapely form clothed in a white, gossamer mourning robe of such length that it trailed upon the ground behind her. Her shoulders were flanked by feathered wings whose purity was so striking that the freshly fallen snow paled in comparison to them. Gracefully, the woman brushed a strand of fiery red hair away from her eyes with a bloody hand, her ashen cheeks marked by many tears.</p><p>“Hail to the disciple of the unascended;” she declared, “a slave who refused to obey her chains. I am the crobeak who bathed in your blood and I am the crone who conversed with you to announce my coming. With their dying breaths, the recipients of my vengeful anger have named me: Sacrier. As I have called myself, so shall you be. The tears I have wept for the suffering of the children of this world are now your guides. Pain and sorrow will be your closest companions, and you will dominate and control them, teaching them to be the sword in your right hand and the mace in your left. No need for the tools of war have you, for you will carry them with you always. As your blood, freely given, has sustained me, so shall I sustain you.”</p><p>Overcome with emotion, the disciple dropped to her knees before Sacrier, saying, “<i>Maîtresse</i>, I am unworthy of your favor. You have led me away from the brink of death and allowed me to return to protect my kin; I tell you, everything I am is yours. Teach me what to say, so that I may help them understand how to turn their grief into strength.”</p><p>Sacrier brought her disciple back up on her feet. </p><p>“Encourage your kin thusly:—"</p><p>“My child, for every drop of blood you shed,<br/>
A power without equal will rise where<br/>
The earth itself may tremble at your feet<br/>
And your foes will flee as the wind through wheat;<br/>
Take heed! Sacred are your cries, Sacrier!”</p><p>She then kissed her disciple’s forehead with infinite tenderness, adding, “Go now and teach the agony you have endured to your oppressors. May your kin behold your vengeance, and believe.”</p><p>Though the winter wind howled with fury and the snow churned with blinding thickness, Sacrier’s disciple reached the compound where her fellow slaves were held. She immediately proceeded to free them all, shattering their iron cages and scattering the gutless picketmen like piwis caught in a cyclone. These guards, who had once spat in her face, cried out in terror and threw themselves into the unforgiving wilderness; death at the hands of Djaul’s reign seemed better than to face the warrior who would not die. The disciple and her companions went on to overthrow their masters, and tales of their revolution travelled far, carried by the disciple’s kin and shared with strangers during long nights spent huddled by a welcoming fire. Bowed by their suffering, the children of the gods eagerly listened to stories of Sacrier’s serenity, their hearts ready and willing to be taught how to forge their misery into power. The passing of a fortnight saw the followers of Sacrier had swollen to become a multitude. Assuredly, Sacrier ascended to join the company of the Ten, her wings now stained black from the blood of her many disciples. Thus, the little planet at the center of the Krosmoz gained a new name: the World of Eleven.</p>
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